


Drowning is for idiots

by advictim



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, M/M, Narcissus Sherlock, Orgasm Denial, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23040100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/advictim/pseuds/advictim
Summary: Sherlock could hear the nymphs giggling between the trees, though they didn’t dare to come closer. He knew the stories they told - that Sherlock was so in love with himself that he spent his days at the lake looking at his reflection on the water, bemoaning his own beauty and wallowing in misery that his image could not love him back. That he would one day fling himself to the deep and drown because of it.Idiots.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 115





	Drowning is for idiots

**Author's Note:**

> Here, have some happy porn with hints of Greek mythology.

Sherlock spent his days by the lake. There was an oak tree that long ago grew too close to the water and nearly fell down, but still managed to cling to the soil, looming horizontally over the deep end. Sherlock laid on its trunk, facing the lake, one hand lazily tracing meaningless patterns on its surface. The forest provided a shade no matter where Helios was on his travels through the cloudless sky, so Sherlock remained alabaster white even without bothering with clothes. Thick scent of everblooming flowers floated in the air. An occasional snippet of a flute melody filtered in through the trees. There wasn’t even a breeze. Sometimes Sherlock would stop moving his hand to let the water calm down and take a good look at himself, then sigh deeply and disturb the surface again. 

It was suffocatingly hot and excruciatingly, mind numbingly boring. 

Sherlock could hear the nymphs giggling between the trees, though they didn’t dare to come closer. He knew the stories they told - that Sherlock was so in love with himself that he spent his days at the lake looking at his reflection on the water, bemoaning his own beauty and wallowing in misery that his image could not love him back. That he would one day fling himself to the deep and drown because of it. 

Idiots.

Sherlock had no intention of ever going in the water - it was full of slimy, vengeful, primitive creatures, certain to make death painful and unpleasant. More importantly, there was no reason to wish for death - even though the whole forest cared for nothing else but lust, Sherlock had yet to experience the feeling, towards himself or anyone else. 

Sherlock was special after all. He was the only one in the world, or at least the part of it he could easily reach by walking, which basically meant the same thing. The forest was full of life, brimming with animals, nymphs, satyrs and centaurs, but Sherlock had yet to meet anyone who could resemble himself even the slightest. The other creatures were simpletons, needy and eager, always playing games that were so boring Sherlock didn’t ever bother to acknowledge them. Sherlock was reduced to spending his time alone, looking at his image on the water and wondering if there was a purpose of him being the way he was, with a mind that could solve the trickiest riddles and a heart that yearned for something even Sherlock couldn’t name. 

Sherlock looked at his reflection. There he was, the most exceptional thing in creation, yet he was wasting away. He already solved all the riddles and deduced all the love triangles, explored all the mysteries and visited all the forbidden places. The only place he had no knowledge of was the underwater of the lake. It guarded its secrets well, so Sherlock had to be content with rumours and myths. Certainly, none of them had any grain of truth in them. The dark water gave only the reflection of the things above, and yet, Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes of it. 

A shadow passed in the water below. Sherlock quickly retrieved his hand. The shadow passed again, closer this time. Sherlock felt his heart pounding and he held his breath, waiting for the creature to appear again. It took its time, but when it did, it finally breached the surface. Sherlock saw a face which winked and disappeared under water again, then, as a creature dived backwards, a glimpse of a smooth white stomach and a bundle of thick, black tentacles. Sherlock sat back, affronted. Something dared to wink at him, some mystery inhabitant of the lake that he had never seen before. As much as Sherlock despised others, he also wanted to take a better look at the creature, to figure out what exactly it was. Sherlock stretched his neck to peek over the trunk of the tree, and just under it, there it was – the creature, lazily bobbing on the water surface, hands behind its head, one of the tentacles around the branch preventing it from drifting away. Sherlock was surprised to find himself wanting to touch the mysterious appendices. They looked firm and smooth, and Sherlock wanted to find out if they truly were.

Sherlock took a good look at the creature. “What are you?” he finally asked.

“You will have to figure that out,” said the creature. 

“Are you here to tell me to keep away from the lake?”

“On the contrary. I am here to make you come back,” said the creature and lifted itself halfway from the water, few of its tentacles creeping up on the branches. Sherlock purposely didn’t flinch. “But the next time, when you return, I want you to return for me.” 

Before Sherlock could even take a breath to give a dignified response to such an outrageous statement, the creature leaned back and dived in the water infuriatingly gracefully, his whole body arching backwards before going under. The restless tentacles were the last to disappear. 

This simply wouldn’t do. Nobody commanded Sherlock, he was his own man, free to wander wherever he wished. Sherlock would never bow to somebody's bidding, not even the creature’s as exciting as the one from the depth of the lake. Sherlock huffed an annoyed breath to solidify his resolve, and strolled back to the forest, without any intention to come back to the lake any time soon. 

The next day Sherlock wandered in the forest, but whatever direction he turned to, he would always end up at the path that led to the oak by the lake. Growing more and more frustrated, he increased his pace, stomping the ground with determination, but the paths refused to take him anywhere else. The day went on, but Sherlock was not about to admit his defeat, staying away from the lake with increasing difficulty. The lake belonged to the water creatures, but the tree was Sherlock’s, and it was unfair that he couldn’t go back to it just because somebody had the audacity to throw an offhand remark. Who was the creature to declare it was it that Sherlock came back to? He went to the lake just because he felt like it, it wouldn’t be different if he kept doing that. Sherlock didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, nobody had any right to claim to know his motives. Still, going back to the tree felt like defeat, so Sherlock turned towards the shallow end of the lake, to the clearing were the nymphs often went for a drink or a quick splash. He sat down on the sand, letting the water lap gently at his stretched out legs. Surely, it was too shallow there for any lake inhabitant to creep up on him here. 

Despite reassuring himself, Sherlock still felt on the edge. He listened to every rustle of the reeds nearby, followed every ripple on the water surface and startled when a fish jumped out of the water. There was no shade there, and the bright sun shone right to his face, making him blink and rub his eyes. It was nothing compared to the tranquillity and comfort of lying on the tree. Sherlock was about to stand up and go away, but he bent down to wash his face before that. Just as he lowered his hands from his eyes, he saw a familiar face at his feet. The creature was lying on its stomach in the shallow water, head propped with its hands, tentacles lazily trailing behind it, as if it was there for hours, content to observe Sherlock’s miserable attempts to cool himself. 

“There you are,” said the creature.

“How did you find me?”

“You’re not exactly hiding, are you?” 

Sherlock pulled his feet towards him, but the creature didn’t move. 

“I didn’t come here because of you,” said Sherlock. 

“But I did,” said the creature. “And I still hope you will, too. One day.”

Sherlock stretched out his legs once again. The creature in front of him was powerful, and obviously dangerous, but there was nothing menacing about it at the moment. It didn’t look as if it was about to make Sherlock do something he didn’t want. Might as well enjoy the encounter then. At least the creature was interesting. 

“How should I call you, soldier?” asked Sherlock.

“John,” the creature answered, and crawled up, until his face was at Sherlock’s hip. “How did you know I was a soldier?”

“Your scars,” answered Sherlock, watching the tentacles twisting and turning leisurely, inching closer and closer towards Sherlock’s feet. “And your muscles,” added Sherlock as an afterthought. 

“You really are as brilliant as they say,” said John. 

Surprised, Sherlock looked up at John’s face. There was no trace of mockery there. John meant what he said.

“Who they?” Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“All of them. I’ve heard so many rumours about the incredible Sherlock that visits the lake often, I had to come and see for myself.”

This was not the way Sherlock expected the encounter to go, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered. 

One of the tentacles brushed the sole of Sherlock’s foot. He startled but didn’t move his leg away. 

“Sorry,” said John. “They sort of have a mind of their own.”

“I don’t mind,” said Sherlock, observing the tip of the tentacle that caressed his toes. Its movements were slow, cautious, but purposeful, inching up Sherlock’s leg, until it twisted round his ankle and squeezed it gently. Sherlock tried to move his leg and found that he couldn’t. At all. With only the relatively thin tip of one of his tentacles and without any visible effort, John was able to hold him in place completely. Sherlock’s mind quickly supplied the image of John using the full force of his tentacles, either to hold someone in place or to rip them apart, but the idea didn’t scare him. If anything, it made him excited.

The tentacle kept creeping up Sherlock’s leg and the others joined in, prodding and poking Sherlock in random places. Though wet and slippery, they weren’t completely smooth, with just enough friction on skin to make the sensation pleasurable. One tentacle brushed the underside of Sherlock’s knee and he willingly let it lift his leg a little to give it better access. Their undulations were maddeningly slow, and Sherlock grew impatient with want for them to go higher. With every inch they crept up, they stocked the heat in Sherlock’s belly. Sherlock didn’t look John in the face, mesmerized with the movement of the tentacles on his body. Three of the tentacles now covered Sherlock’s legs, caressing, squeezing and poking, inching up little by little, their movements random and unpredictable. Sherlock’s skin broke in goosebumps. The tentacle brushed the inside of his thigh. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. If he wanted before, now it turned in to a yearning, and there was no hiding it, because his cock was plumping up, halfway to fully erect already. Sherlock was not about to obscure it, in fact, he hoped John was watching, though Sherlock couldn’t turn his eyes away from the tentacles to confirm it. The agony of their slowness was the most delicious thing Sherlock had ever tasted. 

The tentacle reached the crease at the top of his thigh and Sherlock willingly spread his legs further apart. He felt John lifting himself up from the water, moving so close Sherlock could feel John’s breath. It was very satisfying to find it uneven, though the tentacles still avoided Sherlock’s nearly fully erect cock. John deliberately puffed a breath up Sherlock’s throat, then just under his ear. It took a lot of Sherlock’s willpower not to grab John’s face and smash their lips together, but everything John was doing was too good to make him stop.

“Tell me, what else have you figured out?”, asked John and licked the underside of Sherlocks ear. Sherlock could barely speak.

“You are a son of Poseidon, send here to protect the lake,” said Sherlock and turned his head away to give John a better access to his neck. 

“And?” John murmured at the offering.

“You did your job so well there’s nothing left to protect it from. You’re as bored as I am,” spoke Sherlock in an increasingly breathless voice. 

“The things I would like to do to you,” whispered John to Sherlock’s ear. The tentacle moved up Sherlock’s belly, reached his nipple and curled tightly around it. Sherlock bucked up.

“I hope you will let me,” continued John, in the same breathless whisper that tickled Sherlock’s ear and made him yearn for more. “I need your permission, Sherlock.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed out before John finished his sentence. One of the tentacles finally touched Sherlock’s cock. 

“Oh, this is wonderful,” whispered John.  
The tentacle curled around Sherlock’s cock, round and round, covering it completely and then gently tightened and loosened in a maddeningly slow rhythm. Instead of bringing Sherlock to completion, it increased his wanting until it engulfed all the thoughts of his vast mind, leaving no space for deductions, observations or witty remarks. Even begging for more was out of the question. Sherlock would have trashed if he was able to move at all. If the pulsing could go fraction faster, just that little bit tighter, Sherlock could catch his release and he kept chasing and chasing it, feeling it so close, and still just slightly out of his reach.

“You’re amazing,” whispered John, while Sherlock tattered on the edge, unable to tip over, “I don’t ever want to stop. But like I said, I need to you to return to the lake because of me.” 

And he vanished. 

Sherlock would have screamed with frustration, if there weren’t more urgent matters to attend to. He barely had the presence of mind to wash his palm from sand before grabbing his cock and giving it a few forceful strokes. Up, down and it was over, and Sherlock came so hard he buckled up and then flopped down on the sand, basking in an unfamiliar mixture of sunlight, euphoria and exasperation.

It was glorious.

He couldn’t stay there long, though, unless he wanted to deal with some nymph or satyr that were bound to show up any moment. Sherlock forced himself to stand up on still wobbly legs and go back to the forest, where no water creature could be able to observe him. He was played, fooled like a youngling, but at the same time, Sherlock found himself more intrigued than ever in his life. John was strong, smart and come from the depths of the lake - there was no way Sherlock wouldn’t come back, but for now, he wanted to keep his dignity and pretend he wasn’t desperate, so he went away in search of a secluded place for the night. He was barely fooling himself, though. 

Next morning, Sherlock went straight to the tree. He went back because of John, and Sherlock wanted John to know that. As Sherlock sat on the tree trunk, feet lowered to the water, he savoured the anticipation. Sherlock knew that John would take his time, this was how this game worked, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from coming here with the first rays of the morning sun.

It was almost midday when something huge forced out of the water, splashing the tree and Sherlock on it, reached the height of Sherlock’s face, twisted mid-air and dived gracefully in the water again. After a couple of breaths, John surfaced again.

“Hi there,” said John.

“Hello,” said Sherlock, flickering drops of water from his fingers. “Was that really necessary?”

“No,” John grinned. “But you liked it.”

Sherlock grinned back. Of course, he did.

John swam closer and tickled Sherlock’s foot with his tentacle. Sherlock kicked the leg to splash John. They were both grinning like idiots and Sherlock once again felt the goosebumps on his skin, but he didn’t want to show his excitement too much. It was much more pleasant to let John take the lead, and John apparently read his thoughts, because he chose that moment to curl the tentacle around Sherlock’s ankle and yank him into the water. 

“Welcome,” said John, when Sherlock surfaced and moved the wet hair out of his face. It took all of Sherlock’s strength to paddle enough to keep above the water, and he still had to stretch his neck to prevent water from coming up his mouth and nose, but John didn’t let him struggle for long. Sherlock felt strong arms circling his waist and tentacles around his legs. John was able to support them both by barely moving. 

“Do you trust me?” asked John and Sherlock merely rolled his eyes in response. Sherlock came to the tree and let himself be dragged into the water, surely the answer was obvious enough?

“Wanker,” teased John, but he was still smiling. The hands tightened around his waist until their bellies and chest were flush together. Sherlock’s own hands cradled John’s shoulders, fingertips tracing the smaller and bigger scars that adorned John’s skin. They were nose to nose and though Sherlock knew where this was heading, the kiss was still a bit of a surprise. 

And what a kiss it was. 

John was fully committed to the task and Sherlock was soon overwhelmed with sensations, his focus narrowing to John’s mouth, lips and tongue. Sherlock gave back as much as he could, trying simultaneously to open up his mouth and invade John’s and if this wasn’t the most glorious of battles, Sherlock didn’t know what was. John tasted of cool fresh water and secrets, and at some point Sherlock became aware that they were slowly sinking, but then John bit Sherlock’s lower lip and Sherlock tried to retaliate by sweeping his tongue in John’s mouth, and the next moment, the water was over their heads.

In a brief moment of panic Sherlock took a shocked gasp, expecting the water to flood his lungs and then finding that he was breathing as easily as if he was on land. They were still sinking deeper and Sherlock tried to both look around the unfamiliar territory and figure out how was it all possible.

“I see that you are enjoying my gift,” said John when Sherlock finally focused back to him.

That was an understatement so absurd, Sherlock didn’t even acknowledge it. It was John’s turn to roll his eyes. 

“Yes, you can snoop around as much as you want to,” said John. “Where do you want to start?”

Sherlock didn’t have to think for an answer. The underwater of the lake was vast and contained many secrets, but so far, the most interesting and worthy one was right in front of him. 

“I was hoping you would choose that,” grinned John. “Come on.”

John held Sherlock by the waist, and they swam in an exhilarating speed, deeper and further from the tree, and the glimpses of strange creatures and their habitats excited Sherlock so much he forgot all about boredom. When they finally stopped near the huge seaweed covered rock wall, Sherlock felt as breathless as he usually was after a good run. This rock had to be the bottom of the tiny island Sherlock had noticed far in the middle of the lake. He never expected to be able to visit it, at least not from this angle. The crystal-clear water and the white sand covered bottom reminded Sherlock of sun lit forest clearings, where naughty nymphs lured the willing satyrs for some carnal pleasures. They can keep their clearings – Sherlock ended up in a much more exciting place. 

Sherlock was so agitated he didn’t know where to begin. He wanted to know everything there was to know about John - from his mind to the taste of his skin, but there was no way to ask probing questions while licking someone, so Sherlock just observed John, undeciding how to proceed, while no new detail he noticed helped him to figure it out. John seemed fine with that at first, but after a while, he gently pushed Sherlock into a wall.

“Enough observing,” murmured John into Sherlock’s ear and kissed Sherlock in the same demanding manner. The questions stopped seeming so urgent, at least until Sherlock’s mouth was otherwise occupied. 

Sherlock did remarkably little thinking from then on. John took Sherlock’s hands in his and lifted them over Sherlock’s head, pinning him to the wall, while the tentacles curled around Sherlock’s ankles and restrained his legs as well. The seaweed on the wall was softer and thicker than it looked, but Sherlock barely felt it, because the caresses of John’s mouth and the ever-restless tentacles nearly overwhelmed him. If those tentacles really had a mind of their own, it had to be brilliant, because the things they did drove Sherlock to the edge of madness in a manner of moments. 

“Oh, how lovely,” keened John, while a tentacle caressed Sherlock’s perineum. Another tentacle rounded Sherlock’s buttock and the tip of it teased his crevasse. John’s mouth left Sherlock’s and proceeded down his neck, while Sherlock arched and bucked, just barely, because the strength John held him with didn’t allow any more. It felt like drowning, but instead of panicking, Sherlock just wanted to go deeper. 

He must have demanded that out loud, because more tentacles joined in touching Sherlock. A tentacle curled around his one of his nipples and gently pinched it, while John licked and sucked the other. Sherlock felt caresses on the underside of his knees, barely there tickles on his toes and rhythmic curls on his stomach, but the most pleasure come from the tentacle than glided up and down his fully erect cock, while three of the tentacles crawled up Sherlock’s neck and caressed his cheek. Sherlock turned his head and licked the tip of the closest one, feeling it move on his tongue. He enjoyed the taste and texture, and the gasp that he heard from John filled him with deep satisfaction. The tentacle on his buttocks went from teasing to insistent as it reached Sherlock’s opening, and Sherlock tried to push down on it, but John still didn’t let him. 

“Patience,” said John, though his voice betrayed the same hunger Sherlock was feeling, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” gasped Sherlock, dizzy with want, “I trust you.”

“Patience,” repeated John, while the very tip of the tentacle finally probed Sherlock. All the remains of restrain left him.

“Please, John,” begged Sherlock, yet the probing remained steady and careful, deeper and deeper with each thrust. The tentacle on Sherlock’s cock curled around more tightly and sped up the up and down glide, while Sherlock was being opened further. Sherlock caught the tip of a tentacle in his mouth again and started sucking. Apparently, John also had his limits, because he arched into Sherlock and the thrusts finally sped up. It wasn’t water that surrounded Sherlock anymore - it was John, his smell and taste, his grunts and gasps, and Sherlock wanted to drown in him while riding waves of pleasure higher and higher.

Sherlock felt the tentacle inside him thicken and the one around his cock loose it’s rhythm, and John let go of his arms and braised himself on the rock, bracketing Sherlock’s face with his arms. Sherlock might have been extraordinary, but he wasn’t omnipotent, especially against the sight of John loosing control. John trembled and stiffened up, driving the tentacle inside Sherlock even deeper and Sherlock stopped tampering the build-up of tension and simply let go, every nerve ending in his body exploding with ecstasy. Sherlock floated in a bliss for what seemed like an eternity, gradually regaining his senses and control of his limbs. Apparently, John felt the same, since they managed to drift away from their spot with the currents of the lake. 

“For a moment, I was certain I’ve died,” murmured John, his eyes still a little hazy. 

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go,” replied Sherlock, equally disoriented. 

There was something unfamiliar building up behind the excitement and curiosity that Sherlock felt. It took a while for Sherlock to name the feeling, because it was so new, but he finally realised what it was. 

Content. 

Finally, there was no directionless longing, no uncertainty, no pull to seek the unnamed. Sherlock found his match and he was finally content. Even now John’s eyes had a twinkle that promised more games, more adventures and even more pleasure and the two of them together had endless possibilities to make life exciting. No more boredom. There was nothing stopping them from staying together for an eternity from now on.

The white and yellow flowers that sprouted on the path towards the tree that Sherlock used to frequent were a coincidence. Nymphs were quite fond of them.


End file.
